Harry Potter and the Seven Sided Hall
by RachOutToChopin
Summary: A fanfic originally conceived to explore the answer to the question, "What if Lily survived, she married Snape, and he became Harry's stepfather?"  And then lots of other exciting things got thrown in, too :P
1. Sacrifice

For all its worldwide fame, the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry rarely saw visitors enter the castle at 3 A.M. during the middle of summer vacation. Yet a total of four people now sat in the headmaster's office at just such a time; theirs would be one of many gatherings across wizarding Britain that day, and one of the few that would not be jubilant.

The room was cloaked in silence, save the whirring and buzzing of the headmaster's various contraptions and the soft cries of a one-year-old boy with a curious lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. The boy grasped at the air in front of him, dreaming of his crib in Godric's Hollow, of the floor falling from underneath him, and of a blinding green light.

Seated behind an elaborate wooden desk, a kind-faced man with half-moon spectacles and a long white beard broke the silence.

"Lily," he said, addressing the red-haired woman who cradled the sleeping child in her arms. "I'm…I'm so sorry."

Lily Potter shook her head. "No," she told him, holding back tears. "It wasn't your fault."

The man sitting next to her seemed to be on the verge of bursting with rage. "Anyone's but yours," he growled, staring at the floor. "_Especially_ not yours, Dumbledore."

He couldn't hold it in any longer. "That filthy rat!" he cried, standing up and kicking the wooden desk, sending a bust of Helga Hufflepuff clattering to the floor. "He would've had you all killed! _I_ would've had you all killed!"

Lily stood and grabbed the man firmly by the shoulder, the now-crying baby in her other arm. "Sirius, we all thought it was a good plan. We all thought we could trust Peter."

Sirius fell back into his seat, but when he spoke again, his voice was still filled with rage and disgust. "I killed him, Lily. If I hadn't shut up, James would still be alive. I gave you and him and Harry to Peter, and now I have to live with my best friend's blood on my hands."

"Sirius, please," Lily pleaded, as she simultaneously attempted to coax her son back to sleep. "Don't blame yourself." She took a deep breath. "We have to at least tell Dumbledore the story first."

Sirius leaned back in his armchair and stared up at the ceiling. She was right, of course. "Okay," he said. "Let's get it over with."

* * *

><p>It was just past midnight—only a couple hours ago, Lily thought amazed as she began the retelling—when the door to the Potters' house in Godric's Hollow was blasted off its hinges.<p>

James, sitting in the living room, saw him first. A tall, pale man with a flat nose and red slits for pupils had just walked in. A muggle would've thought he looked rather like an alien, or maybe that he had been raised by snakes.

"Lily, take Harry and go," James shouted to Lily, who was in the next room. "It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

Lily Potter fled up the stairs as fast as she could. Behind her she caught a glimpse of James rushing to block the path to the staircase that led to Harry's bedroom. Voldemort would know to go upstairs; _Hominem Revelio_ would show him the location of the third person in the house—the one person that had to be saved at all costs.

The little child who would turn one year old that day.

Lily reached her son's crib, where he lay, to Lily's amazement, fast asleep. She had to get him to safety, and safety was far away. Portkeys and apparition were too dangerous for a one-year-old, and Voldemort was sure to be tracking the Floo Network. So instead, she pulled out her wand from the pocket of her jeans and whispered, _"Expecto Patronum."_

A silvery doe burst forth from her wand, circled the room once, and bound out the window in search of Sirius Black.

Downstairs, James was fighting—delaying as much as he could. Lily reached into her other pocket and pulled out a tiny glass vial containing a couple milliliters of a shimmering golden liquid. _Horace would be proud_, she thought, as she drained the bottle of Felix Felicis.

She could only hope that James had had enough time to do the same.

These hopes were dashed an instant later, when Lily heard her husband cry out in pain and slam against the wall with a loud _THUMP_. He had not taken the potion, and Voldemort had murdered him; now he would murder his son. _Or he'll try_, thought Lily, ice water seeping through her veins as she steeled herself for her last duel.

But James Potter was apparently not dead, for a couple seconds later his voice cried out, louder than ever. "NOOOOOO! Don't leave me here and kill them!" And before the words came out, Lily's heart sank, because she knew what James would yell next, knew what Dumbledore had told them would provoke Voldemort's rage every time. "You dirty half-blood son of a muggle, KILL ME INSTEAD!"

Lily stood in Harry's bedroom in horror as she heard Voldemort turn and race back down the stairs. James had gotten under the skin of the Dark Lord. He had done his job by buying time for the escape. He would die protecting his wife and his son.

Lily couldn't see James's face at that moment, but she could imagine it perfectly—focused and defiant, as if he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. It was the look he would always get when she refused to go out with him years ago, and it used to always make her laugh inside.

She did not laugh now. She wanted to scream, but Felix helped her just barely catch hold of herself.

"_Avada Kedavra," _cried a furious voice, and she knew now that her husband really was dead. But she steeled herself again and refused to let this fact register in her brain: not until her work was done. There was another bastard that needed to die tonight.

* * *

><p>But two hours later, that fact had registered, and a burst of tears flowed down Lily Potter's cheek. She turned to look at Sirius, who sat stone-faced, fists clenched tightly. She took a deep breath, wiped her tears on her sleeve, and began the strangest part of the entire ordeal.<p>

"I went out into the hallway," she recounted, "ready to fight him at the top of the stairs, to stop him from getting to Harry." She stroked the boy, who had gone back to sleep. "But he never came up the stairs. Someone else came into the house first."

Dumbledore looked surprised for the first time that night. It would not be the last. "And who would that be?"

"Well, we don't know," answered Lily. "That's what Sirius and I have been trying to figure out. He looked like Peter, but there was something odd about his gait. I think it was Polyjuice. Anyone could've tortured Peter to get the secret and then yanked out some of his hair."

"No way it could've been Peter," announced Sirius rather loudly. "That coward wouldn't have dared look James in the eye after he gave away his location, let alone come back and try to save him. I doubt Peter Pettigrew has ever thought to save anyone from anything his entire life."

This claim was met with silence. After several seconds, Dumbledore addressed Lily again. "And what did this…disguised savior do?"

"Well, he came in and started yelling at Voldemort not to kill James, and tried to get him to spare me and Harry. And then they started dueling."

Sirius flicked his hand as though swatting a fly. "Yeah, as if Peter was ever any good at dueling. He wouldn't have lasted two seconds against Voldemort."

Lily continued as if she hadn't heard Sirius. "I was shocked at first, of course, but then I raced down and helped him duel Voldemort. If we could delay him enough, Sirius could get to Godric's Hollow with his bike and take Harry to safety. But then,"—Lily shook her head and stared off into space for a while before continuing—"Then he managed to knock us both to the floor. He blasted a hole in the ceiling and Harry's crib came falling down, and he cast the killing curse on Harry."

Lily stopped here, unsure of how to describe the utter nonsensicalness of what transpired next. "But the curse must have backfired, or something, because there was a huge explosion and everyone was flung backwards. I was knocked unconscious. And when I woke up, Sirius was cradling Harry, Peter was gone, and Voldemort's body was sprawled beneath my dining room table."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in surprise, but Lily decided to press on.

"And there's one more thing," she added. "When I woke up, Voldemort's wand was gone."

Now, Dumbledore was truly shocked. For the first time that Lily had ever seen, he seemed to be at a loss for words. Sirius had to push the debriefing along.

"It was Bellatrix," he informed Dumbledore. "I saw her when I arrived in Godric's Hollow after I got Lily's Patronus." He swore under his breath. "Another one of my brilliant ideas. If I hadn't insisted on splitting everyone up, I could've been in Godric's Hollow the whole time, and gotten Lily's Patronus in an instant."

Lily put her hand on Sirius's arm, and he seemed to snap back into the conversation. "Right…er," he stammered with an embarrassed grin—the only grin he would manage that day.

"I got to Godric's Hollow, and the duel had already happened—the roof had a giant hole in it from the rebounding curse. I ran towards the house, and as I got there I saw Bellatrix running out of the house carrying two wands. I shot a hex at her but she blocked it, and she managed to disapparate. I ran into the house and found Harry crying, Lily unconscious but alive, and Voldemort stone dead."

Lily breathed. She was glad the storytelling was finally over. Maybe now they could get some answers. "What does it mean, Albus?"

For a man who had just been told that the Lord Voldemort, his great nemesis, was dead, Albus Dumbledore looked deeply troubled. "The fact that Bellatrix Lestrange was ordered to collect Voldemort's wand can only mean one thing—that Lord Voldemort intends to return to power."

"But how?" interjected Sirius. "He had no pulse, and Lily put a curse on his body to make sure he couldn't be revived."

"Well he can't come back in that body," observed Lily, "but he can make another. Or rather, Bellatrix can make one for him."

Dumbledore nodded at Lily. "Yes, it sounds like that is Voldemort's plan. His goal has always been to become immortal, to become immune to bodily weaknesses such as death. Whether or not he has succeeded, we cannot know. But he certainly believes that he is not finished."

Lily frowned. "Do you have any idea _how_ he intends to come back to life?"

The old wizard lowered his head, resting it on his left hand. "I have pondered this question for many years, Lily." He exhaled slowly and looked back up to face her. "And now I must give you a difficult task, but a very important one, if we wish to solve this puzzle. I do not wish to trouble you without needing to, but you are possibly the only one who can succeed at this task. You were, as you know, one of Horace Slughorn's favorite students."

Lily wasn't sure where this was going. "What does Horace have to do with anything?"

"Horace has had many favorite students over the years. One of them was a charming young man named Tom Riddle. I believe Horace may have some knowledge of Voldemort's early plans, but he has kept quiet out of shame for letting those plans come to fruition."

Lily suddenly felt quite unclean for being one of Slughorn's favorites. Any honor that she shared with Lord Voldemort couldn't possibly be good. And then there was another concern…

"Harry needs a mother, Albus," she said, gently combing the boy's untidy hair. "I can't just jump into a mission on a whim anymore. I need to know: can we—" she broke off, realizing that the question she was about to ask was incredibly silly, that the answer was completely obvious; but then she remembered Peter Pettigrew's betrayal, and remembered that nothing was obvious. "Can we trust Horace?"

Dumbledore had expected this question. "Horace is a man who enjoys his creature comforts. I'm sure he would've liked to retire years ago and lounge around eating crystallized pineapple all day long. But he has stayed at Hogwarts these last few years because he knew that if he left the protection of the school, Voldemort would certainly come to find him, either to recruit him or to kill him. Horace is no Death Eater material; he wants nothing to do with Voldemort anymore. In fact," Dumbledore mused, "the fact that he wishes to forget the very existence of Tom Riddle may be the biggest problem we will face."

Lily looked down at the little bundle of joy still fast asleep in her arms. She would do whatever it took to keep him safe—and he would only be safe when she could ensure that Lord Voldemort would not return. She looked up at Dumbledore and nodded. "I'll do it."

But another thing seemed to be bugging Sirius. "I still don't understand what happened when Voldemort tried to kill Harry. How did he survive the curse?"

Dumbledore's eyes watered as he cracked a gentle smile. "James's sacrifice, Sirius." He paused, remembering James Potter, the talented Gryffindor boy who had matured so much and had saved so many lives. "When James sacrificed his life to prevent the deaths of those he loved, he offered to them the most powerful protection he could give. That sacrificial protection prevented Voldemort from being able to kill Harry."

The explanation didn't make sense to Lily. "But sacrificial protection is really rare, isn't it? It has to actually be a sacrifice. Are you saying that Voldemort wouldn't have killed James without James provoking him?"

Dumbledore froze for a moment before answering. "Yes," he finally replied. "It appears that we must conclude that Voldemort did not wish to kill James tonight." His gaze looked sincere, but Lily couldn't help but feel that there was _something _the Headmaster wasn't telling her.

Dumbledore's eyes drifted away dreamily. "Love is our greatest asset," he continued. "Our ability to love each other, our willingness to give ourselves up for a greater cause—this is what Voldemort will never understand. This is the power he can never have."

Lily thought she heard Sirius mutter that Peter didn't have that power either, but she didn't comment. Instead, she summoned three glasses of mead, which landed silently on the wooden desk. She looked around the room, first at Sirius, then at Dumbledore, and finally at Harry, and felt a warm glow in her heart. "To James," she said, raising her glass. "To love."

* * *

><p>Tom Riddle was nearly overcome with rage. How could he have been so foolish as to trust a man like Peter Pettigrew? He should've just taken the secret and killed him. "People," he spat, or would have spat had he still had a mouth. Emotions and attachments made them weak, made them ill-suited for his ends.<p>

But next time would be different. Next time he would have something more…reliable. So Lord Voldemort forced the image of Peter Pettigrew's foolish antics out of his mind—or whatever part of him was now thinking—and concentrated on the one place that would change everything: Albania.


	2. Platform Nine and Three Quarters

Chapter 2: Platform Nine and Three-Quarters

Harry Potter couldn't decide whether he should be nervous or excited for his first day of school.

On one hand, he finally was going to learn _real magic_. He was going to use a _real wand_ and brew _real potions_ and wrestle with _real magical creatures_. The thought made Harry giddy every time he thought about it.

On the other hand, _every single person_ at to Hogwarts would know that Harry Potter was starting his first year. The thought made him sick every time he thought about it, which was a rather unpleasant feeling to have after being giddy. Harry hated being the center of attention. _Especially _when the reason he was the center of attention was that his dad died on his first birthday and had protected him from Lord Voldemort.

Harry hadn't _done_ anything. He frankly didn't understand why everyone made a fuss about _him_.

Harry stepped out of the family car and strolled into King's Cross Station, his mother right beside him. Pushing a cart that was nearly as heavy as he was, he fought his way through the bustling crowds until he was standing before the brick barrier that separated platforms nine and ten. It was the same barrier he would drag his mother to every single time they went to King's Cross, just so he could sit there and imagine what it would be like to board the Hogwarts Express and to learn magic like any normal child.

It was Harry Potter's greatest wish: to be a normal magical child. He wanted to be able to eat an ice cream in Diagon Alley without worrying about getting swarmed by an army of adoring fans. He wanted to be able stop himself from flinching every time he saw a camera bulb flash.

Sometimes, he even wished he were one of the muggle boys at the elementary school he attended—they had no idea who he was, though they loved making jokes about his scar.

But these moments of weakness passed quickly. Harry, though he was only eleven, had already made up his mind that Magic was Awesome. He loved the feeling of flying off a swing set and landing gently on the ground ten seconds later. He loved the look on the muggle children's faces when he showed them butterflies that seemed to dance, or kicked footballs that seemed to zig-zag between defenders.

For though Harry didn't quite realize it yet, he didn't _really _hate being the center of attention at all; as the only child of a loving mother, he couldn't imagine it any other way. What he _really, truly _hated was being the center of attention for the wrong reason.

He looked up at the familiar barrier that separated the ordinary world from the magical world, the world where he was nobody from the world where he was the savior of the world. He took a deep breath, and was about to step through, when he heard an exasperated cry a few meters down the wall.

"No, that can't _possibly_ be right," complained a short girl about Harry's age. She had brown eyes to go with her head of bushy brown hair, and parked next to her was a cart that looked nearly identical to Harry's.

"Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?" asked Harry, trying to be helpful. "All you have to do is—"

"No, don't _tell_ me," cried the girl, spinning to face him. "Professor McGonagall said it would be an interesting challenge for me to figure out how to get there. You'll spoil the answer!"

Harry blinked. _Must be a Ravenclaw,_ he thought.

Meanwhile, the girl continued muttering to herself. "I shouldn't have to take out my wand, that'd be dangerous. So it can't be like Diagon Alley. I wonder if it's like the Leaky Cauldron—is there a door here that other people don't notice? Is that—no, that's the bathroom…"

Giddiness began to overtake Harry. It was an amazing feeling to be anonymous, to just stand there while this girl talked about all the magical places she'd visited. He looked up and saw his mother deep in conversation with two people, presumably the girl's parents.

No one was watching him.

He could step into the wizarding world without anyone noticing. His first acts as a _real_ wizard could be those of a normal boy wizard pushing a normal trunk with a normal lack-of-a-scar on his forehead. He just wanted a taste…

"Good luck with your puzzle," he shouted to the girl, as he pushed his trunk through the barrier and crossed over to the other side.

* * *

><p>The other side was heaven. Harry's eyes opened wide at the sight of the gleaming red Hogwarts Express, a long trail of clean white steam billowing out its smokestack. He scanned the platform, watching students laughing, hugging, and fighting over Chocolate Frog cards.<p>

Not a single person stopped to stare at him. Life was beautiful.

But all too quickly, a hand grabbed his arm and spun him around. "_Harry James Potter_," his mother said in a terrifying whisper. "You will _not_ disappear on me while I am not watching and you will _not_ cause me to leave a very pleasant conversation I was having, and I will wait here for that girl's parents to come through the barrier and you _will_ wait with me!"

Harry sighed. Back to abnormalcy.

* * *

><p>Hermione Granger didn't believe it. She rapped her fist against the wall for the fifth time. It was still solid. She prodded it with her cart. The cart bounced back.<p>

"_What_ is going on?" she asked herself out loud. Why was the barrier solid for her, but that rather annoying boy was able to walk right through it? For heaven's sake, even her _parents_ had taken it in stride and vanished through the wall. The whole idea of a wall only some people could just walk through…it made no sense. She _refused_ to believe it.

And that's when she realized it. _No_, she thought, _that's terrible_. It went against everything she stood for, everything that made the human experience reasonable.

But when she thought about it, it was the only thing that made sense on any level. And so she announced silently to herself, with great imagined conviction, _I believe that I will walk through this wall_. She pushed her cart forward, believing with all her might, forcing herself to ignore the little voice in the back of her head that shouted _beliefs aren't modifiable by volition!_ She was about to crash into the wall, but she didn't flinch…

* * *

><p>One second later, Hermione Granger was face-to-face with the boy she had first met on the other side of the barrier. She looked as if she had just been gravely insulted.<p>

"That's _soooo _wrong!" she screamed at the boy, whose expression had taken on a smugness that somehow managed to _increase_ how annoying he was. "You shouldn't be allowed to change reality by changing your mind about it. That's like the first rule of science! It makes the very pursuit of knowledge a complete sham and I reject it!" The words came out very quickly, even for her.

The boy's smugness turned to confusion. "Wait, what?"

"The barrier is solid until you _believe_ that it's not solid. _Then_ you can walk through it."

"Huh," he said thoughtfully. "So you _had_ to be told about it by someone before you could walk through?"

"Yes, and it's completely ridiculous! I mean, if I want to learn calculus it doesn't _become true_ just because I've learnt it. It's _always_ been true, I just didn't know it, and if I had enough time I could figure everything out without needing to be told anything. That's how we can discover anything new in the world. But if you have to believe something is true before it can _actually_ be true, well then we ought to just give up!"

The boy's annoying grin had returned. "Well, maybe Professor McGonagall was trying to show you that you don't have to discover everything yourself, if someone else has already discovered it."

Hermione stared at the boy for a while, trying to figure him out. He was definitely annoying, but he seemed to be annoying because he _knew things_ and was _using his brain_, which was odd because she was observant enough to know that usually people complained about _her_ doing that.

"Hermione Granger," she said, sticking out her hand suddenly.

"Er," said the boy, as if he'd forgotten his name or something—Hermione considered taking back her statement about his use of a brain—, "Harry."

"Well. Nice to meet you, _Harry_." What kind of person doesn't give his last name?

"_Harry"_ raised his eyebrows. "Nice to meet you too, Hermione Granger."

Hermione was so thoroughly vexed right now that she wanted to turn on her heel and never look at the boy again, but a morbid curiosity glued her feet to the floor. There was only one sure-fire way to find out if the boy was _actually_ smart.

"What did you think of our textbooks? I found _Hogwarts, a History_ fascinating; there's so many protective enchantments it's no wonder You-Know-Who could never touch Dumbledore. Charms looks fun, though I thought the potions book overdid the descriptions of sheep's eyes and toad disembowelments."

Harry chuckled. "Potions isn't that bad. Once in a while you'll even brew something that smells _good_ for—"

But Hermione didn't get to hear the rest of Harry's opinions on potioning, because at that moment an enormous trunk that came hurtling straight at the pair of first-years. Harry saw it just in time and jumped back, but it caught Hermione square in the hip, sending her flying backwards. She skidded on the ground for a meter before coming to rest.

"Oh! Er…sorry," cried a nervous boy who was completely hidden behind the tall trunk, except for a mound of fiery red hair.

Hermione was beyond amazed. "You thought it was a good idea," she asked, her voice reaching a frightening level of bossiness, "to run at an opaque barrier pushing an out-of-control cart that you can't see over?"

The boy's cheeks flushed to match the color of his hair.

"I—it was—my mum said it would be less scary if I ran at it," he admitted sheepishly.

"Well next time," exclaimed Hermione, rubbing her sore hip, "maybe you should consider solutions that don't include running people over."

A pair of identical-looking boys with flaming red hair of their own strode through the barrier and immediately began tearing up with laughter.

"What's this," said the first one mockingly. "Has our Ron gotten himself into a fight before classes even start?"

"No, don't you see," the second replied, eyeing Hermione. "He's already gone and gotten himself a girlfriend. We're out of our league here." The pair laughed heartily.

"Oh Fred, if that's the case then we _really _should introduce ourselves," said the first. "George Weasley. Pleased to meet you." He shook Hermione's hand vigorously, then Harry's.

"Fred," said the second one in an accusatory tone. "I told you not to do my introductions for me. I'm George Weasley. He's a flobberworm. Sorry for the confusion!"

"And of course you've already met the family ghoul, Ron," said the first George, ruffling his little brother's hair. Ron looked utterly mortified.

At that moment, the party was joined by a fourth red-headed Weasley, who appeared to be the mother of all the others. "Oh Ron," she said, noticing the scarlet patches on his cheeks. "What happened?"

"It wasn't his fault," said Harry, feeling bad for the boy. "Hermione and I were standing too close to the barrier, and he ran into her when he crossed it."

Hermione was too busy processing all the different juvenile, hurtful things the twins had said to kick Harry in the shins for being a traitor.

Mrs. Weasley smiled at Harry. "Oh, yes, well it's mighty dangerous to stand right next to the barrier, you know. People can't see you. Are you a first year like Ron?"

"Er, yeah."

"How wonderful! What's your name, sweetie?"

Hermione suddenly couldn't stop smiling. "Harry," said Harry, and when it was obvious that Mrs. Weasley was expecting to hear his full name, he added with the slightest hint of dejection, "Harry Potter."

The effect was immediate. Hermione's jaw dropped, the two Georges exchanged identical looks of shock mixed with triumph, and Ron let out a loud _"No!"_ Even Mrs. Weasley let a look of surprise cross her face, but she recovered quickly.

"It's very nice to meet you, Harry," she said with a smile. "And you must be Hermione," she said, turning to face the girl. "I'm sorry about Ron's cart."

Ron, in the meantime, had walked around to Harry and was ushering him towards the back of the station. "It's not safe for you here," he whispered. Harry followed mechanically, though without fearing very much for his safety, considering Ron had previously been afraid of a brick wall.

"What's this about?" Harry asked finally, after they had walked all the way past the coffee shop where his mum and Hermione's parents were still chatting, seemingly too interested in the differences between the muggle and wizarding education systems to have noticed the recent commotion.

"My sister," said Ron darkly. "She's crazy about you. If she ever got her hands on you, she'd never let go. Seriously," he added, when Harry raised his eyebrows, "Fred and George even found her a pair of Permanent Sticking gloves; they think it's hilarious."

Harry was suddenly incredibly grateful to Ron. "Thanks. I hate it when my 'fans' try to maul me to death."

"Don't worry about it, mate," said Ron.

But Ron had to know at least one thing, now that he'd met the most famous eleven-year-old in the history of magical Britain. "What's it like? You know, being famous?"

"Honestly? It's really annoying. My mum sent me to school with muggles because she couldn't say my name in Diagon Alley without drawing a crowd. And after Terence Trundinger ripped out a chunk of my hair so he could add it to Polyjuice Potion and 'become me,' she stopped letting me hang out with any wizarding children at all."

Ron nodded as if he knew what Polyjuice Potion was, and as if he knew what it was like to draw a crowd. "Blimey. I thought I had it bad, with five older brothers who've all managed to become Hogwarts legends one way or another. Though I don't suppose mum is too happy with Fred and George's claim to fame…"

Harry listened with great satisfaction as Ron described his brothers' exploits from the previous year, which included bewitching quills to explode when someone wrote the word "Slytherin" and smuggling Dungbombs into the school through a secret passage. Everything his mum had told him seemed to be true. Hogwarts was _amazing_.

In no time, Harry heard the warning squeals of the train's whistle, and Ron hurried back to his mum to tell her he was getting on the train. Harry's own mum found him and gave him a hug.

"Stay safe at Hogwarts," she told him with a smile. "If there's any trouble, send me an owl. And don't forget about Professor Snape."

"Okay, mum," said Harry, quickly scanning the platform to see if anyone else's mothers were also giving them hugs. He was relieved to note that this was not an uncommon occurrence. "Love you."

* * *

><p>On the train, Harry and Ron managed to grab a compartment all to themselves and soon found themselves in a heated argument over Quidditch teams. Or, more precisely, Ron found himself in a heated argument over Quidditch teams. Harry didn't care too much about the game, and he actually admired Ron for his unswerving devotion to the Chudley Cannons, but he couldn't help but point out that Ron must be one of three-dozen fans still loyal to the ailing franchise. Besides, Harry at that moment was quite content to talk about anything that a) was magical and b) was not him.<p>

All the while, Ron had done a splendid job of deflecting the throngs of onlookers who kept knocking on the door to the compartment, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Boy Who Lived. In fact, Ron appeared to be quite enjoying all the exposure he was receiving for being Harry's bodyguard; after a while he began alternating his story between "the compartment's full" and "there's no one here" just to vex the passersby. But Ron's backbone gave way when Hermione Granger knocked on the door.

"There's no one—oh. It's you," Ron said as he opened the door. "Look, er, I'm really sorry about running you over with the cart. That was my fault."

"Oh. Well it was a pretty silly thing for you to do," she said flatly. "But I take it you won't go running around blindly pushing your trunk next time?"

Before Ron could even nod his head, Hermione walked in and sat in Ron's former seat, which was directly across from Harry.

"Harry, what have you heard about potions? I just talked to fifteen different students and they've all said that potions with Professor Snape is the most unfairly run class at Hogwarts. Well, everyone except the Slytherins, anyways."

Harry's curiosity was piqued. He knew his mother used to be friends with Snape, but he'd seen enough to know that _something_ had rocked their relationship, and he was dying to know what it was.

Ron just nodded vigorously. "Yeah, if you're not in Slytherin, Snape is supposed to be brutal. Even Percy says Snape is harsh, and he's the prat who gets offended every time Fred and George open their mouths."

"Well that's a shame, isn't it," said Hermione matter-of-factly. "I hope I won't miss out on my potions education because I'm not sorted into Slytherin."

"Are you kidding, Hermione?" asked Harry playfully, leaning back in his seat. "Surely you don't need a _teacher_ to teach you potions."

Suddenly, an ear-piercing squeal filled the room. Harry had inadvertently kicked the cage containing Ron's pet rat, which woke with start from its nap. The rat took one look at Harry and immediately bound out of its cage and scurried through the door, which Hermione had left ajar.

"Scabbers!" cried Ron, running out the door. "Come back here!"

And before Harry could even get up and close the door, it swung wide open again, and in strode an arrogant-looking boy, his blonde hair slicked back with what even Harry could tell was way too much hair gel.

"Ah, so this is the famous Harry Potter," said the boy grandiosely. "I was just passing by and thought I recognized you."

Harry didn't believe this for one second. Luckily for him, Hermione interjected before he could come up with a sufficiently acerbic reply.

"And who are you?"

"Oh, of course, of course, how rude of me," said the boy. "Draco Malfoy. It's an honor."

He shook their hands with an oily warmth.

"I hear you've been hiding from everyone, Harry," said Draco, as he closed the door, making Harry suddenly feel like a caged animal at a zoo. "Hiding when the entire wizarding world is so grateful to you. They _adore_ you. Fame is a bully pulpit, you know."

Hermione would spend the next minute trying to estimate the probability that Draco Malfoy knew who Teddy Roosevelt was.

Harry just shook his head. Why couldn't these people see what a cursed life he led? "Fame is only as good as what you're famous for. I'm currently famous for having my dad die on my first birthday."

Draco tried to frown thoughtfully, but it came out more like a pout. "No, I suppose you're right," he said after a while, though deep down he thought Harry's comment made absolutely no sense.

He turned to Hermione, "I haven't heard of the Grangers before. Are your parents—do they do magic?"

"My parents are muggles," said Hermione, fully expecting to see the boy's face contort with disgust. She'd read more than enough textbooks to know that only a blood purist would ask that question. But to Hermione's surprise, Draco's eyes seemed to light up, and he seemed eager to say something. He opened his mouth, closed it, thought for a while, opened it again, then closed it again.

"Oh," he said finally, his expression returning to normal. "Well you must find a lot of things strange here, don't you?"

"Oh, I suppose," replied Hermione. She'd prepared a whole spiel for when she finally ran into a blood purist, but Draco really seemed quite harmless. "It was a shock when I got the letter, of course, but once you know that magic exists then nothing seems _too_ strange anymore."

Draco gave a grin that was intended to be warm, but just looked devious on his pale face. "Well, I know both of you didn't exactly grow up in the wizarding world, so if you need any help, just find me. I know all the people you need to know if you want to _be_ anyone."

The door flung open and in stepped Ron, clutching his rat and staring at Draco with a look of deep-seated loathing on his face. The Malfoy boy glared back.

"Weasley," said Draco coldly, keeping his voice steady.

"Malfoy," growled Ron, not managing to do the same.

"Well, I really should be going," announced Draco. "I wouldn't want to intrude on the happy reunion party for Weasley and his"—Draco paused for a second, eying the pitiful gray creature—" rat." He walked out with his nose upturned and shut the door loudly behind him.

Ron looked like he'd just seen a ghost, or a scary wall or something. "You were talking to Draco Malfoy? I step out for one second and you—you fraternize with the enemy? With _your_ enemy?"

"Oh, don't be so silly," said Hermione. "Until you came along he wasn't _that_ bad."

"Wha—of _course_ he's that bad, don't you know who his father is? Lucius Malfoy? The most obvious Death Eater in the world? The one who throws galleons at the Ministry until he gets everything he wants?"

"Well," said Hermione matter-of-factly, "all _I_ can say is that his son didn't strike me as the type who would torture muggles to insanity for fun, right Harry?"

"I've seen worse," said Harry. "And if we're judging everyone by their parents, then my godfather is a lunatic blood purist."

Ron just shook his head. "I can't believe your mum didn't prepare you for this, Harry. Everyone _says_ they're your biggest fan, but not everyone is. There's still people in high places who wish You-Know-Who never fell. And muggle hating, blood purity, these things didn't just die ten years ago. You can ask my dad, he'll tell you all about the things wizards are doing to terrorize muggles."

For the rest of the trip, Hermione sat attentively as Ron described the wizarding world in more detail—though with admittedly more inaccuracies—than Hermione could find in any book, while Harry stayed mostly quiet. He was deep in thought, wondering if it was worse to be universally adored because of something he didn't do when he was one year old, or to be reviled by handful of people because of something he didn't do when he was one year old.


	3. The Potions Master

**Author's Note: **I hereby apologize to J.K. Rowling, the Chosen One to whom we all bow down, for brutishly and shamelessly copying some lines directly from _Sorcerer's Stone_. It's just too good. Needless to say, she deserves all the credit.

* * *

><p>Except for the plethora of words beginning with the letter P, nothing could possibly be simpler than taking attendance on the first day of first-year potions.<p>

"Parkinson, Pansy."

"Present."

"Patil, Parvati."

"Present."

But Severus Snape's life had never been simple. In fact, the Potions Master of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would soon make a mistake that would haunt him in the years to come.

The mistake was this: he saw the next name on the list, but before reading it aloud, he looked up, scanning the sea of expectant Slytherin and Gryffindor faces.

He found, sitting near the back of the classroom, an eleven-year-old James Potter.

Severus blinked, and found himself sitting on the Hogwarts express again. First-year Potter and Black were strolling triumphantly from his compartment, laughing boisterously as if they were Head Boy and Head Girl. He blinked again, and he was running towards the Whomping Willow, a foolish grin on his face; another flash, and he was being forcibly disrobed while dangling upside-down on the Hogwarts lawn, immobilized by his own spell. Soon, everything from his first seven years at Hogwarts howled back to life, trapping him in a whirlwind of pain, embarrassment, and heartbreak. And now, this second James Potter had dared to return to Hogwarts, to sit in on his class, to belittle and embarrass him once more? No. Not again. "Ah, _yes_. Harry _Potter_. Our new—_celebrity._"

Unfortunately, taking swipes at James Potter did nothing to stop the visions of Potter and Black from swirling around in Severus's head. When attendance was finished, he was determined to keep talking, if only to prevent the memories from haunting him in the cold silence of the potions dungeon.

Besides, he'd always wanted an excuse to give his little speech.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began in a near-whisper. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if," he added, staring at the Potter boy, "you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

And the whirlwinds of time swirled again. Severus's voice rose to a harsh roar.

"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"Er, the Draught of Living Death?"

Severus's mouth spat out questions faster than his brain could process the boy's answers. "Where would you go to find a bezoar?"

"A goat's stomach? Though I'm guessing there's some in your storeroom…"

"What's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"Uh, they're the same plant, aren't they?"

Only then did something dawn on Severus. The boy's answers were…_correct_.

"Tell me, Potter, do you enjoy looking up useless trivia to impress those around you, or do you intend to learn something from this class?"

James Potter stared straight into Severus Snape's eyes. "I don't know, maybe you should ask Professor McGonagall. She's the one who said I needed to take first-year potions."

The words _arrogant toerag_ came to Severus's mind. "Very well. Today we will be preparing a potion to cure boils, and I would like everyone to follow to the letter the example of J—Mr. Potter." He swept over to the Potter boy's desk and snatched the potions textbook from his hands. "Surely, Potter, this book cannot tell you anything you don't already know. I will…_relieve_ you of it."

James merely glared back. "As you wish, Sir."

* * *

><p>Remembering things out of a textbook was a simple enough matter. It wasn't a real surprise that the boy knew a few things. But when Harry Potter began chiding her for the "foolish" way she was slicing her porcupine quills, <em>that<em> was when, for the first time in her life, Hermione Granger felt incompetent.

"Hermione, no! You can't cut all the quills right down the middle! How am I supposed to add in the right amount if I only have pieces of the same size to work with?"

"Oh, well I'll just cut them up some m—"

"_Are you mad?_ If you cut a porcupine quill more than once it becomes _more_ potent!"

Hermione didn't like feeling incompetent. And she honestly had no idea how it was happening. The book didn't _say_ anything about cutting porcupine quills in jagged lengths, or about what happened when you cut them multiple times. The book said to cut them in half, and she cut them in half.

She stole a glance at Ron and Neville Longbottom, who were working at the neighboring desk, and saw that neither of those pure-blooded wizards had thought to get creative with their porcupine quill slicing—though Neville's trembling hand seemed to have resulted in some asymmetrically-sliced quills by accident. So it wasn't just because she was muggleborn, Hermione thought. It was as if Harry had some different source of knowledge that no one else knew of.

"Tell me, Harry," she ventured, after the boy had just stirred the cauldron one rotation counterclockwise, which the book _definitely_ didn't tell them to do. "How does one make essence of murtlap?"

"Pickle the tentacles," said the boy, not looking up from the bubbling blue cauldron.

"Who discovered the twelve uses of dragon's blood?"

"Our Headmaster."

"Who was the author of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?_"

Silence.

Hermione really should've been disappointed to discover that textbooks were apparently not the best way to learn potions, but she was too pleased with herself for figuring out what was perhaps the boy's darkest secret, and too outraged at him for what it was. "_Aha!_ I bet you haven't even touched the book, have you? Mister Bigshot Harry Potter doesn't have to go about learning things the normal way, he—"

"Stop." Harry had finally looked up from the cauldron, and for a second his unnaturally green eyes seemed to bore so deeply into Hermione's that she jumped backwards, falling right into the arms of Ron, who had been tugging at Hermione's sleeve in an attempt to get her to stop talking. He blushed and gingerly released her as Harry looked back down, dropping a stewed horned slug into the cauldron. "I don't know who wrote the textbook because my mum taught me all that stuff years ago, okay? It has nothing to do with me thinking I'm better than everyone else, and everything to do with the fact that I grew up above a sauna room of amortentia and polyjuice. Quills."

Professor Snape suddenly swooped by the table as Hermione dumped the chopped porcupine quills into Harry's outstretched hand. The boy grimaced as he examined the meticulously sliced quills, all within a centimeter of the same length.

"Here goes nothing," he sighed as he dropped the quill halves one by one into the cauldron. The color of the solution changed gradually, slowly lightening and lightening. After fifteen quill pieces, it began to flicker between light blue and a shade of green that matched Harry's eyes. Harry scanned his palm for the smallest quill left, took a deep breath, and dropped it in his cauldron.

Though none of them realized it, all three people staring at that cauldron held their respective breaths as the quill hit the surface. Colors vacillated wildly, until for a whole five seconds cauldron shimmered a brilliant green.

Then, in a flash, yellow. Snape smirked at the urine-colored mixture that remained.

"Well, Mr. Potter, I see that you have not yet mastered the simplest of first-year potions. But perhaps I can recommend some...remedial exercises for you."

The Potions Master stalked away quickly, pocketing his wand.

* * *

><p>"Sir?" asked a voice that should have been terrified, but wasn't.<p>

Severus did not look up from the O.W.L.-level lab reports that already covered his desk. "Proceed."

The source of the noise pulled from his bag a small envelope, neatly sealed with a wad of red wax. Severus took it and tore it open. The letter it enclosed was even shorter than the envelope suggested, but that didn't stop Severus's mind from filling instantly with dread.

The letter was written in the hand of Lily Evans.

It read simply, _Sev, I __know__ it was you. Three Broomsticks, Saturday, 8:00. __BE THERE__._

The last two words had been scrawled in a much larger font.

When Severus finally looked up—he reread the letter a good nine times first—he saw that Harry Potter was still standing in front of his desk.

"My instructions," the boy said deviously, seeming to be quite enjoying himself, "were to stand here and refuse to leave until you said yes."


	4. Disconnect and Reconnection

Maybe he didn't want to tell Lily Evans a _second_ time that he had made the biggest mistake of his life. Or maybe he couldn't bear to be told a _second_ time by the woman he loved that he should get on with his life and leave her alone. But Severus Snape had done, well, precisely that. He had not seen Lily in ten years.

It was 7:30 on Saturday evening, and an odd mixture of dread and excitement had settled into the depths of Severus's stomach. Or rather, he knew he was _supposed_ to be dreading the upcoming conversation, but there he was, half an hour early, just waiting to watch her walk through that door.

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long. Lily, too, was early.

She looked like she was cut straight from of Severus's dreams. There were the green eyes that shone like a pair of beacons, casting a warm light on everything they focused on. And then there was the long red hair, flowing like stormy waves crashing against a moonlit shore. If Severus Snape was a rock, then Lily Evans was an island, beautiful and fearless in the face of a tumultuous ocean.

Or, if instead you chose to believe the story Madam Rosmerta would later tell the crowds of drunken witches and wizards that night, then Lily Evans tore through the front door of the Three Broomsticks like a hurricane, her eyes glowing as if bolts of lightning were about to shoot out from them.

The woman whose green eyes, one way or another, sparkled, walked quickly and purposefully towards Severus. She leaned over the table, her face only a few feet from his. "Let's get one thing straight, Sev," she said with a petrifying stare. "What's my son's name?"

When Severus finally regained the ability to talk, his voice was that of a stone gargoyle. "Harry. Harry Potter."

"Good. Then you will stop confusing him with his father and stop trying to terrorize an eleven-year-old boy over a twenty-year-old grudge." She sat down in the chair opposite Severus. "Now," she said with a tone of finality, "to important matters."

He had decided ahead of time that the best strategy would be to get out ahead of the outrage storm. "Lily, there's no other way to say this. I screwed up. Screwed up in so many ways. And I know you were writing me, but I couldn't bring myself to answer your letters, not after what I had done."

Lily furrowed her brow, staring quizzically at her former best friend. "And what exactly did you…_do?_"

"What do—everything that happened that day was my fault, Lily. I gave Voldemort the prophesy, and when I realized he was coming for you, I panicked and tried to save you, but I just made things worse."

The quizzical look intensified. "_That's_ your story?"

"Er…yes?"

Lily leaned back in her chair and almost chuckled. Almost.

"Really, Sev? You're telling me that when I sent you all those owls ten years ago, and you ignored them and avoided me all this time, it was because you were too scared that _I would be mad at you?_"

_Seems reasonable, since you're mad at me now,_ were words that Severus thought but definitely did not say.

"And here I was, wondering how my old friend had veered so far to the Dark side as to regret defying Lord Voldemort in order to save my family."

The words hit Severus like a charging erumpent.

"You thought I would rather have let Voldemort win? You thought I would rather have seen you all die, and _that_ was why I didn't want to talk to you?"

"Well you should've opened your mail, then," she replied bitterly. "You could've done something. Heck, the Severus Snape I remember would've slept outside my front door until he could apologize to me."

Severus's dream world was entering the twilight zone of illogic. "You're—you're _not_ making a big deal about the prophesy, or about me letting Voldemort get to Harry, but you're mad that I didn't _talk_ to you afterwards?"

"Don't be silly, Sev. Of course I was mad at you for everything. But," Lily continued, failing for the first time that night to meet Sev's gaze, "I really _did_ want to talk to you. That much was true. You could've, at least, saved me a lot of time." She closed her eyes for a long second. "Do you know how I finally proved for certain you were the one under Polyjuice? I had to go to Ollivander's with Harry three weeks ago, and when Ollivander was trying to find Harry a wand, he started trying the twins of all of my old friends' wands, including Peter's. _That's_ when I realized why you looked so strange under Polyjuice. You used your own wand."

Severus worked hard to stifle a gasp. It had never before made any sense to him why he was supposed to use his own wand that fateful night, but Felix Felicis had urged him to do so. And now he wondered what else Felix might be useful for…

Lily charged on, not noticing a thing. "You could've told me, said _anything, _but no, you just had to vanish as mysteriously as you came. It's not easy piecing together a story when the only other witness refuses to talk to you. Didn't you want to know everything, to understand everything? Weren't you curious at least about what I had been doing before the attack? How I had _defied the Dark Lord thrice?_"

Severus sputtered. "I—how could I face you, Lily? I hated myself for what I'd done—how could I possibly look at you in the eye with any dignity?" He wanted to keep going, to tell her how hard it had been, the inescapable shame mixed with the unbearable loneliness, but he pulled himself back. Even though it had been ten years, he just couldn't. It was…too soon.

Instead, he took a long swig from the glass in front of him.

"I just needed you to be a friend, Sev. You came back for one night to help me, and then you disappeared." She looked tired, and maybe that was why she couldn't stop the next words from coming out. "It was just like Hogwarts, just like you'd left me all over again."

Severus nearly choked on his drink. His voice rose, tinged with indignation. "_What?_ Lily, I made a mistake in our fifth year, and you turned your back on me. I had nowhere to turn, no one else to talk to. I wouldn't have joined the Death Eaters for good, Lily, but _you_ left _me_."

Lily scoffed. "Keep telling yourself that, Sev. No, _you_ left me a long time before fifth year. Avery and Mulciber! That gang of yours, they did things to us Gryffindors that were far worse than anything James ever did to you! And you, my best friend, just continued to defend them." Her voice acquired a sharp edge that frightened Severus a little. "So don't you accuse me of anything, Severus Snape, when you're the one who put me through Hell for years."

The two former best friends sat in silence for seconds that seemed like hours, both thinking to themselves, _How did we end up here?_

"This was a mistake," Lily finally declared. "I have to go." She stood up abruptly.

Severus's mouth suddenly unstuck itself as a desperate urge overcame him. Now that he had seen her again, he couldn't let her get away. "Lily—wait!"

But it was too late. Lily Evans had disapparated with an unusually loud _crack_, leaving behind nothing but…

Severus nearly tripped over his own cloak as he lunged towards the chair at the other side of the table. Lying on the seat of that chair, twitching ever so slightly, was a slender, pale white finger.

* * *

><p>Lily Potter was quite sure now that she'd completely lost her touch. It was really <em>so<em> like Lily Potter: Single Mother to bring up Hogwarts at every possible opportunity, even though Lily Potter: Member of the Order of the Phoenix or even Lily Evans: Head Girl would've wanted to slap her in the face. Slipping so far like this wasn't supposed to happen, not to people who used to have lots of friends and married Quidditch superstars and had magical powers.

Then again, people with magical powers were supposed to be smart enough not to disapparate in the middle of a conversation and get themselves splinched.

Lily was sitting on her front porch, back against the polished exterior of her front door, and began to slowly bang her head against it. She'd already tried apparating back, but _Destination, Determination _and_ Deliberation_ were a bit harder to focus on when one of your fingers had just popped clean off your hand. She tried summoning a Patronus next, even though she knew that making one required only marginally less concentration than apparating. _Happy thoughts, Happy thoughts,_ she said to herself. _Not Evil. Not Evil._

She'd managed only a faint wisp of silvery smoke when a faint _pop_ signaled the arrival of another soul to her corner of Godric's Hollow. A loud _bang_ a half-second later reunited her with the index finger of her left hand.

"You still live here?" asked Sev, helping her up to her feet. "I was worried you'd moved after..."

"Oh, no, I couldn't move," she said, sparing him the burden of completing his sentence. "Too many memories here. It's not the sort of thing you can walk away from."

Severus Snape's attention, however, had drifted past the meticulously groomed chrysanthemums blooming in the garden, past the smoothly painted yellow walls, past Lily Evans herself, to the first-floor window through which a familiar scene smiled back at him. He saw the familiar green lawn, the familiar sparkling clear water, the familiar shadowy trees looming in the background. Children bustled back and forth—they weren't quite so familiar, as he couldn't make out any of their faces from that far away—and the giant squid floated lazily on the surface of the lake, splashing water on anyone who got too close.

It was, in short, the most amazing painting Severus had ever seen, and as if some great force had glued his muscles in place, he could do nothing—wanted to do nothing—but stare and stare and stare. And it wasn't just because the _scene_ of Hogwarts was familiar…

"I understand. Dealing with whiny thirteen-year-olds wouldn't be worth it if it wasn't Hogwarts."

And now something was pushing him, urging him to close the deal, now that the hazy, dreamlike quality of his vision had dissipated, now that everything finally made sense. He knew what Lily Evans had gone through, because he had gone through the exact same thing.

"You know," he ventured, "we never really got to talk about anything remotely recent. I've seen some ridiculous things happen at the school, for sure."

Lily appraised her old friend, and might have even cracked the smallest smile. "Next time, Sev. Next time we won't bring up any of these sad old stories."

They were the most beautiful words Severus had ever heard. "I'll owl you." He apparated back to Hogsmeade and began the short walk back to the castle, his left hand aimlessly fingering the small glass vial that he always kept his pocket. It was sealed shut with a wad of wax and filled to the brim with a happy-looking golden liquid.

* * *

><p>Lily Potter shut the door behind her, walked past her wall-sized painting of the Hogwarts grounds, and descended purposefully down the stairs. After navigating the labyrinth of cauldrons and cupboards that was her basement, she reached a small, dusty shelf at the back of the room. As she had done countless times before, she tapped her wand three times on the lid of a jar that held a single bezoar suspended in oil.<p>

Immediately, a giant sinkhole opened up underneath her, but she didn't even flinch. She glided down gently to the newly-revealed floor eight feet below her, already eying the wall of her private study that would soon be undergoing a major renovation.

She was falling into the middle of a large, squarish dungeon that was plastered with so many pictures and newspaper clippings that the rough, gray stone wall behind them was visible only in a few select spots. The pieces of paper themselves were covered in circles and scribbles made with all colors of ink—red and gold, green and silver, blue and bronze. In a few places, a quill seemed to have been insufficient, and large words had been painted over the canvas of photographs with a thick brush.

She made her way to a particularly messy corner of the room, marveling as she did so at the long hours she had wasted sitting there, concocting absurd theories that, at best, made little sense. But then again, she remembered how dark those days after her husband's death were. There was Sirius screaming his head off, chomping at the bit to go look for Peter and tear him to pieces. There were her Gryffindor roommates—and supposed friends—who invariably oscillated between relief that someone else had taken care of Lord Voldemort and tearful heartbreak at the death of their beloved dashing quidditch hero, James Potter. There was the bed that was much too big for one person, with the pillows that she would never wash, because they still smelled of her dead husband. And there was the inescapable feeling that the only person who could save her from the loneliness—the craziness, the never-ending nightmare—had come to her house only to vanish and never write her back.

It was that last feeling that had created the particular wall at which Lily now stared.

The mess was much too personal to just wave a wand at, Lily decided. She conjured a stool, climbed on top of it, and began tearing pictures and clippings down one by one. Slowly, the ink-stained memories fluttered to the floor. A page ripped from a potions textbook, with hand-written words circled in emerald green: _For Enemies_. A picture of a glossy, pernicious-looking dark purple stone. A photograph of a scowling twelve-year-old boy, his greasy jet-black hair twitching like a gorgon's locks.

All those years of thinking, and worrying, and circling, and a five-minute conversation made it look like the biggest waste of time ever. Really, it only took one good look at him before a gleeful voice began parading around in Lily's head. _Sev, evil? _it mocked. _In what universe?_


	5. Aptitude

Chapter 5: Aptitude

The chilly late-October breeze streaming through the window of Professor Flitwick's second-floor classroom failed to cool the temper of the first-year boy sitting in the back row.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Harry cried for the twenty-seventh time. The feather on the table didn't even stir. _This is madness_, he thought.

"Ready to call Charms your least favorite class?" asked a grinning Ron. Only two hours ago, Harry had declared Transfiguration his least favorite class, after Hermione Granger had taken all of ten minutes to turn her cotton ball into solid wood.

"Shut up. Wingardium Leviosa!" The feather wiggled, contemplating whether it might deign to float upwards, then went stiff. Harry groaned. Why couldn't everything be like potions, where you just did things that made sense and they worked?

"Yeah, no, I give up," said Harry, picking up his belongings and walking towards the front of the room.

* * *

><p>There were only two people in the entire classroom who were content with the way the GryffindorHufflepuff First Year Charms class was going. One of those individuals was Professor Flitwick, who had already managed to grade nearly half the N.E.W.T. essays on Protean Charms that had been turned in earlier that day.

The other one was a Gryffindor girl who was nearly as short and, in the minds of most of the students in the room, nearly as Good at Magic.

In fact, Hermione Granger was so good at basically everything that she had become Harry's default source of help on every subject that wasn't potions. "What am I doing wrong, Hermione?" he asked now, frustration evident in every syllable. "Wingardium Leviosa! Nothing!"

"Of course it won't work if you do it _that _way, Harry! Light and airy. You're waving your wand like you're trying to, I don't know, puncture a balloon or spear a fish or something."

"Win-_garr_-dium Levi-_ohhhh_-sa," Harry shouted exaggeratedly as he waved his wand in a big circle. The feather remained perfectly still. "This is so dumb. How are you so good at this?"

Hermione _hated_ that question. "I study, Harry. It's not magic."

"Er…"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I mean, yes, we're doing magic, but it's not magic that I'm good at magic, right?"

Ron, who had just sat down to join them, butted in. "But how are you so good at casting spells? You spend practically all your time in the library!"

"Well, the library books in the library don't reshelve themselves. Okay, well, they do if you ask them to, but I've been working on floating them to the correct spot on the bookshelves. It's a useful spell, and it's _not dumb._"

Harry was about to protest, but shut his mouth when he saw Professor Flitwick walking towards their table

"Oh, hello boys, good to see you in the front row," he squeaked. "Let's see what you've been practicing."

Identical cries of "Win-_garr_-dium Levi-_ohhhh_-sa" produced identical results—neither Ron's feather nor Harry's moved a millimeter.

"Ah, well, keep at it, boys," said Flitwick encouragingly as he returned to the stack of papers on his desk. "Not everyone can perform spells like that on their first try."

If there was one thing at Hogwarts that truly confused Hermione, it was the behavior of her professors. They seemed to believe that the best way to teach was by doing as little as possible. Why didn't brilliant witches and wizards like Professor Flitwick or Professor McGonagall do everything they could to fill the world with likewise brilliant minds?

"Just follow me," Hermione instructed. "_Wingardium Leviosa!"_ The feather in front of her floated effortlessly into the air, bobbing up and down and spinning in circles at the flick of her wand.

"Blimey," said Ron.

Under Hermione's diligent tutelage, Ron by the end of class had managed to lift his feather two feet in the air for a few seconds, but Harry still couldn't get the hang of it. When Professor Flitwick dismissed the first-years, Hermione and Ron headed towards the Great Hall for supper, but Harry turned the other way, muttering something about the bathroom.

"Tell me, Hermione," said Ron as they followed Percy through a maze of stairs, "how long did it take you to figure out how to levitate books in the library?"

"Um, maybe thirty minutes," she replied truthfully, though she could tell where this line of questioning was leading.

"So this is just easy for you, isn't it," said Ron, looking down at his feet. "Just like Bill and Charlie."

Hermione wanted to say that Ron didn't have sufficient evidence for his conclusion, that she had picked up Levitation Charms quickly because she'd been reading books and being precise her entire life, that she'd had practice with precisely the skills important for charms. But instead she just shrugged. She knew enough about social conventions to know that talking too much about why you were doing better than everyone else in a class was a Bad Idea.

After climbing up five flights of stairs—which Hermione realized made no sense, as they had started a floor above their destination—they finally made it to the hall just as dinner was about to commence.

The Great Hall was sheathed in near-total darkness, save the candles on the walls that flickered on and off every few seconds and the coats of armor, whose helmets had been transfigured into Jack-O-Lanterns for the occasion. Thunder rumbled directly overhead, and a swarm of bats swooped by the Gryffindor table, one of them making off with a tuft of Neville Longbottom's hair.

"I wish they would turn the lights on," Hermione said to Parvati Patil, who was sitting next to her. "I want to finish reading my book!"

As if on cue, Professor Dumbledore rose from the head table, his sparkling blue eyes and long white beard suddenly illuminated by a light that seemed to emanate from within him. "I see that none of you were scared enough by my decorations to miss the Halloween Feast," he announced. "Quite a pity—I should find some more aggressive bats for next year. Well, you all have survived two whole months of Hogwarts, and have braved the darkness to venture into the Great Hall. You—or should I say, we all—deserve a Halloween feast!"

With those last words, the lights came back on, and a cornucopia of strange-looking dishes appeared on the tables. Hermione saw tentacles and brains and hearts—cooked but charmed to continue beating—, not to mention the various food-like items that she couldn't identify. She reached into her backpack, removed _The Potioner's Encyclopedia: 777 Essential Ingredients and How to Use Them_, and began reading.

Ron, in the meantime, quickly began filling his plate with food. He was just about to dig in to his third serving of squid eyeball pie when Professor Quirrell stumbled into the hall, pale as the pages of Hermione's textbook.

"T-t-troll—in the dungeons," he stammered between wheezes. "Th-th-thought—you ought—to know." He collapsed to the floor with a dull_ thud_.

A mixture of concerned gasps and muted chuckles escaped from the crowd of students. A troll in the castle would be quite the Halloween scare indeed. But then Professor Dumbledore sprang quickly to his feet, shouting instructions to the prefects to lead their Houses back to their dormitories. It was clear from the tone of his voice that this was not part of the script.

Ron and Hermione followed Percy up the stairs, and were rounding a corner on the second floor when Ron's eyes went wide and he ducked into a side hallway, dragging Hermione with him.

"Harry's still in the bathroom," he said frantically. "This way!"

"Just tell your brother then. PERCY!"

But Percy's fast pace had already put him far ahead of Ron and Hermione, and he didn't hear them over the nervous chatter that filled the halls. "Just come," Ron said urgently, before sprinting down the hall towards the bathroom. The _boys'_ bathroom, no less.

"Ron!" she said in a whispered scream. "No! What are you doing? You're going to get us all in detention!" She froze for a second, realizing that she was now stuck between a horde of passing Slytherins and the empty hallway. There was really no choice; she turned and sprinted down the hall. She was a Gryffindor, and she _had_ to try to save her friends. And maybe then she would chastise them severely for being idiots.

A horrible stench assaulted her nostrils as she ran past the Charms classroom to the door marked "Wizards." _Either the boys' bathroom is really that disgusting_, she thought, _or the troll is actually in there._ Both thoughts seemed quite disturbing. She opened the door and saw Ron standing rigidly, face blanched of all color, his wand pointed nervously at a twelve-foot-tall monstrosity with gray skin, rags for clothes, and a wooden club the size of a small car. It was kicking at the door to a stall at the far end of the room.

So, as it turned out, it was the less disturbing alternative.

"Got a plan?" Hermione asked in a tone that tried to be sarcastic, but was filled with fear.

"Er…that's where you come in. Look. I tried this. _Wingardium Leviosa!"_ The club flew out of the troll's hands, and a second later started to fall right on top of its head, but the troll just reached up deftly and caught the club in midair. "That's all I got."

"JUST GET IT OUT OF HERE!" came Harry's voice from far inside the bathroom.

_Think, Hermione, Think._ There had to be _something_ they could do, even if they were only first-years, even if they had only been doing wand magic for two months.

"Wait—Ron, that's brilliant! _Wingardium Leviosa!"_ The wooden club again flew out of the troll's hands, but this time kept bobbing up and down, just out of the troll's reach. The beast started jumping up and down, trying to snatch its club out of the air. Hermione flicked her wand, and the club zoomed into a neighboring stall. The troll obediently followed after it, and a split second later Harry bolted out and sprinted towards the door.

The troll, however, saw its target getting away from it, and began to chase after Harry. Hermione tried to ram the club into the troll's back, but the troll barely seemed to notice—if anything, the club just pushed it forward.

Suddenly, Hermione heard a scream from behind her. "OUT OF THE WAY!"

Ron and Hermione ducked out of the doorway, waiting for Harry to reach them. Hermione grabbed Harry's wrist as he ran by and yanked him to the side. The troll was not far behind, waving its club and causing mirrors to shatter with each step.

"CONFRINGO!" shouted the same voice, and the club exploded into a thousand splinters. A few seconds later, the troll sank to the ground, a large wooden shard sticking out of its right eye.

Hermione spun around, and found herself looking at a tall boy in green-trimmed robes, his left hand shielding squinting brown eyes from the shrapnel that was fluttering about the hallway. His short-cropped brown hair was peppered with bits of what looked like sawdust.

Ron's eyes opened wide. "Isaac?"

The boy's eyes widened in recognition. "Ron!" The two shook hands. "Wow, you've grown a foot and a half since I last saw you. Uh, how've you been?"

"Other than the troll, not too bad," Ron replied. "Percy's doing well for himself too, he's a Prefect now. Unbearable around the house though."

Isaac chuckled. "Yeah, I'm just waiting to hear that Percy's been relieved of his duties for yelling at a first year over a spilled bottle of ink on the common room floor or something. 'Good for him he lasted this long." He turned to eye Harry and Hermione. "And more Gryffindors—first years like you, I take it? I'm Isaac Wilkinson, Prefect. Oh, let me get that for you." Hermione looked down and saw that her robes too were covered in sawdust. The boy whispered,_"Tergeo"_ and the dust fell off her robes as if swept by an invisible rag.

"Potter! Weasley! Granger!" The shrill voice of Professor McGonagall cut through the air. "What are you doing outside of Gryffindor Tower?"

"I've got it under control, Professor," said Isaac, motioning towards the troll's lifeless corpse in the doorway of the bathroom. "These two"—he pointed at Ron and Hermione—"told me their friend was stuck in the bathroom."

"Oh, thank goodness you were there, Isaac. Take twenty points for Slytherin. I'll alert the other Prefects that the troll has been…neutralized." She turned around and walked back the other way, shooting off a Patronus as she did so.

Harry tried to look as small as possible, but it didn't work. "It _is_ you, isn't it," said Isaac, now eying Harry like a juicy piece of steak. "Don't worry, Harry Potter, I'm no Death Eater. I've been trying to…civilize my housemates, actually. Call it a hobby of mine."

Awkward silence followed for a few seconds before Ron cut in. "That was a brilliant piece of magic, Isaac."

"Oh, it was nothing. Hey, I gotta get back to Slytherin, but…I'll probably see you around." He followed Professor McGonagall's steps away from the bathroom.

"You were brilliant too, Hermione," continued Ron. "That bit with the club, making the troll chase it. I would never have thought of it."

"Oh, well it just seemed like a good thing to try," said Hermione. It was true—the idea came to her almost immediately. It just _made sense_, it didn't really take any special insights, it was completely obvious.

_Wasn't it?_

* * *

><p>The boy had long since lost track of what time it was. His wand felt heavy in his hand, and his head was bobbing up and down as if trying to rock the rest of his body to sleep. The entire stall ceased to stay still, but drifted dreamily around his field of vision. He felt like he was floating.<p>

On the floor lay a single feather quill.

"_Wingardium Leviosa," _he said.

The feather slowly left the floor, rose nearly six feet, and then abruptly stalled and began to drift downwards.

The boy was sitting hunched over, eyes closed, glasses nearly falling off his nose.


	6. Wilkinson's Army

In Ron's imagination, the flames dancing in the common room fireplace grew just a bit stronger as he rolled his eyes upwards to glare at his older brother.

"Don't you remember?" Percy was saying.

"Of course I remember," snapped Ron. How could he ever forget?

_The first crack shattered the jovial mood of the warm August night. Ron swerved suddenly in mid-air, almost crashing into Fred; the quaffle fell out of George's hands. All three turned to watch nervously through the lit window._

_Percy was shouting menacingly, wand in hand. "I would NEVER!"_

_Isaac's reply was calm. "Come on, Percy. Don't tell me you haven't been thinking _precisely_ the same thing."_

_Another loud crack, and Percy's bedroom window shattered; Ron had to duck to avoid a shard of broken glass. "YOU'RE SHAMELESS!" cried Percy. "You do _not_ say that in this house."_

_Isaac chuckled. "I'm not the one who should be ashamed, Percy," he responded, the coolness in his voice making the summer night feel chilly. "All I did was say what you've been thinking, I bet for years."_

_Percy sputtered, then went silent for a horrible second, planning his final move. He couldn't exactly win in a straight-up duel with Isaac, but he had the advantage in resources. "Get out. I can't stand you. My _mum_ will listen to me, and you'll be gone before breakfast."_

_Isaac's voice acquired a weary tone. "No, really, don't bring her into this. I'll be on my way."_

"You kicked him out of the house," said Ron. "He was a bloody orphan, and just because he was interning at the Ministry—at the job you were rejected for—you found an excuse to kick him out."

"Ron, I was friends with Isaac for three years. He is a selfish, conniving, ungrateful trickster who just _happens_ to gain the adoration of all the professors because he studies magic like a lunatic. I am forbidding you, as your Prefect and as your Elder Brother, from attending this meeting."

"You're just jealous that he didn't invite _you_," Ron jabbed back. "Jealous that you didn't think of this. You know, I bet it'd just kill you, wouldn't it, if he got Head Boy over you. _Oh I'm Percy Weasley, the world's biggest git, and I can't even be top of my class after talking down to everyone for seven years._"

"Ronald Bilus Weasley," Percy said with a cold stare. "This matter is not about me, it is about Isaac and what he's doing with this crazy group of his." The older boy's voice lowered, reaching almost a whisper. "The Slytherins are already calling it _Wilkinson's Army_."

"You're not—Come on, Percy, you know that's just Slytherin talk. It's just a dueling club. What would Isaac want with an army?"

Percy would've laughed, had he possessed a shred of a sense of humor. "Ron, Ron, Ron, there are some things in this world you have to learn from experience. I've learnt that Isaac Wilkinson is one of the most dangerous people you will ever meet. If I were you, I would be glad that _my_ brother was thoughtful enough to warn me ahead of time."

* * *

><p><em>One week later<em>

Ron thought he finally understood why his mother had always told him to avoid stressful activities right after dinner. He was feeling a tad queasy at the moment.

"This is so mad," he whispered. "Absolutely confundingly mad."

"This is amazing," said Harry, paying no attention to his friend. "I can't believe Sirius actually said yes."

"Yeah, I'm starting to think he might be a bit mad too."

The day before, Harry's godfather travelled to Hogwarts and personally delivered to Harry a small, messily-wrapped package. Apparently, the great Sirius Black did not trust the Owl system; Ron wondered if he'd suffered any lasting psychological scars from his famous discovery a couple years back of the fabled Library of Ravenclaw, and his subsequent duel with the giant owl who guarded its secrets.

"Sirius might be mad," said Harry. "But he's a mad genius."

Ron sidestepped quickly to avoid an oncoming fourth-year. The hallways were annoyingly crowded, as many students were just now returning to their rooms from dinner.

"Can't we get rid of this thing?"

"Come on," urged Harry. "This is fun!"

A shock of blonde hair suddenly entered Ron's field of vision, and his frown turned into a devious smirk. "If we're doing this, I want to go over there."

* * *

><p>"It's a really fine opportunity," Draco Malfoy was saying, not noticing the soft patter of feet coming from the empty space to his right. "Father says he wishes there was such a society of <em>real<em> wizards when he was at Hogwarts."

"I do wish," said his pug-faced companion that Ron identified as Pansy Parkinson, "that someone other than Isaac was leading it. It's so unnatural, don't you think? How is a muggleborn supposed to know, like, _anything_ about dueling?"

"Muggles duel all the time. They have these metallic wands that shoot tiny exploding bulls. Though Father says it's a very, er, primitive sport for them."

"What the—you _know_ that's not what I mean, Malfoy," pouted Pansy. "Just _imagine_ a mudblood leading a bunch of witches and wizards in combat. Isn't the idea just, like, completely absurd? And to think some of the Slytherins are all excited about _Wilkinson's Army_—I thought _you_ at least would have the sense to know that _that_ would be, like, a _complete_ disaster. The only thing _I_ want to know is why Snape thinks so highly of him."

Malfoy took a quick look around and saw that the hallway was empty. "My dad was Prefect when Snape was a first-year," he whispered. "He says most people believed Snape was a half-blood, even though he never said anything about it. And—get this—half the house was convinced he was in love with a muggleborn girl."

Pansy shrieked. "You're lying to me, Malfoy. Professor Snape would _never_ fall in love with _anyone_, and _definitely_ not a _muggleborn_."

"Think about it, Pansy. McGonagall isn't particularly mean to us, but Snape never misses an opportunity to punish Gryffindors. He knows that if he ever starts looking soft on muggle-lovers, all the Slytherins who know his past will call for him to be sacked. Isaac is the only muggleborn he can help and get away with it."

Pansy grinned. "Maybe Snape's tough on Gryffindor because he thinks we're still at war."

Draco spun around to face Pansy. "Don't be an idiot."

"Oh, stop being so up-tight. There's no one here."

"There's no one here to what?" The loud, shrill voice of Professor McGonagall made all four first-years in the vicinity jump.

"Oh, uh, nothing, Professor. Draco and I were just, uh, talking about how, like, you aren't very mean to Slytherin and how, um, you would keep being nice to us even when there was no one else around?"

Ron and Harry had to work extra hard to choke back giggles. McGonagall looked intently at Pansy.

"As long as you show respect for your fellow classmates, Miss Parkinson. Which, I'm sorry to say, has not always been the case."

"I—what—did I just lose house points?"

Draco covered his forehead with his palm in disbelief. McGonagall now considered Pansy with a half-confused stare.

"If you wish, Miss Parkinson. Five points from Slytherin."

As Professor McGonagall resumed her brisk walk down the hallway, Ron pulled Harry into a secluded corridor. The pair took a quick look around, then pulled off the Invisibility Cloak.

"On second thought," said Ron with a wide grin, "this thing is amazing. Did you just see Malfoy facepalm just now? _Amazing_. What a bumbling idiot Pansy Parkinson is, eh?"

"Yeah," said Harry, looking equally excited. "I wonder what secrets we can uncover with this. Snape in love with a girl—that's an interesting image, isn't it."

Two minutes later, Harry and Ron strolled casually into the large, usually unoccupied classroom on the sixth floor. Rows of chairs were laid out near the far wall, while the front of the classroom was devoid of any furniture, save a lone desk. About two dozen students had found the room by this point, and one of them was wearing an icy stare.

"_Really?_ You two are a piece of work," exclaimed Hermione. "Percy trapped me in the common room and cross-examined me for five minutes before he let me leave, and then only because I insisted I was _sure_ you weren't coming!"

"Er…whoops," said Ron, too pleased with himself to be concerned. "Hey, how'd you get him to let you leave anyways?"

"Well I just told him that this was an excellent educational opportunity, that Professor Dumbledore gave Isaac permission to start it, and that if he thought he knew more about what school clubs should be allowed than Professor Dumbledore, then maybe he should drop out and start his own school of magic where nobody was actually given wands because _that_ would be too much like a military." The words flew from her mouth like tiny bulls flying out of a machine gun. "And how did you two run Percy's common room blockade?"

"We got a seventh-year to disillusion us," Ron said quickly. _Good thing we planned for this_, he thought.

Hermione stared deeply into Ron's eyes for a second before shifting to an expression of curiosity. "I really want to try that, disillusionment. But it sounds really uncomfortable, doesn't it? Your skin heats way up as long as you're invisible."

"Yeah, well, that was kind of a pain, but you, er, get used to it, you know."

"Oh really? Because really when you get disillusioned it feels like cold water running down your head. You two _really_ couldn't even look up the basic properties of a charm whose influence you were pretending to be under? And how on Earth did you actually get out? Presumably something bad enough that walking around the school under a disillusionment charm sounds tame by comparison."

"Why do you care about how we got here," Harry butted in. "Why is it so important for you to keep an eye on what everyone's doing?"

"Because when you two do something foolish and dangerous, it reflects badly upon all of us Gryffindors."

The entire room—now a colorful mosaic of nearly forty Gryffindors and Slytherins mixed with the occasional Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw—had by this point turned to watch the argument between The Harry Potter and his Ridiculously Smart First Year friend.

"Oh, so it's fine to talk back to a prefect and sneak out _that_ way, but anything else that generates equivalent results is—"

"Silence, Mister Potter." The monotone drawl of Professor Snape cut Harry off mid-sentence.

Confused whispers of _What's he doing here?_ floated around the room, but the Potions Master silenced these by clearing his throat. "For those of you incapable of recognizing me outside the confines of a room adorned with sheep intestines, I am Professor Snape. As I possess skills beyond those related to brewing potions, and since you are all choosing to participate in an activity fraught with danger, I will be attending these meetings so that these…activities do not get too far out of control. I have the authority to punish, by any means I deem appropriate, any action taken in this room that causes a dangerous or otherwise…undesirable situation to arise.

Ron raised his eyebrows and stole a quick glance at Harry, but Snape noticed immediately. "Mister Weasley, do you have a remark that you cannot bear to keep to yourself?"

"No, sir, I was just wondering how this would be different from potions class." A couple Gryffindors laughed weakly, then shut their mouths.

"Ah, yes, I'm glad you asked. In potions class, when you cause a cauldron to disintegrate due to incompetence, your grade suffers and you lose House points. When you sabotage another student's work, you receive a detention. In this club, if you cast a spell without permission, that spell will be used on you. And if you duel carelessly and recklessly, and create a dangerous environment for everyone, then you will be given the task of dueling me."

A few Slytherins snickered at this threat.

"And I would rather not duel you today, Mister Weasley," continued Snape, as he started pacing back and forth, "for it has already been decided by your friend"—he stopped to glare at Hermione—"that I should spend all of my free time reading her twenty-two inches on the magical properties of unshelled mucous-secreting gastropods."

Pansy Parkinson let out a half-chuckle before stopping and looking down to stare at the floor.

"It's—" Hermione was about to defend her verbosity but Snape cut her off.

"I wonder how many house points I should deduct for _BANG!_"

A sky blue bolt of light coming from the doorway exploded into golden dust halfway on its way towards Snape's back. The Potions Master turned and fired in one motion, wielding a red jet of light that whistled past Ron with a loud _zing_. A floating teakettle materialized in the middle of the room, absorbing Snape's curse and exploding, dousing water on everyone in the room.

The next thing Ron knew, he was falling on his bottom—the floor had been frozen and now gleamed with a thin sheet of ice. Snape slipped briefly, righted himself, and melted the ice below his feet with a burst of flame.

A dark figure now slid into the room, shooting off a flurry of spells that Snape blocked with a glowing white shield. The figure flicked his wrist, and the whole room became enveloped in a thick, dark fog. Snape looked around, seemingly lost, before his head disappeared into the mist.

The entire class breathed. Nearly half a minute passed.

Suddenly, the two combatants found each other again, unleashing a flurry of red and blue like Ron had never seen before. The duelists themselves were still shrouded in a haze, but the bright flashes of light revealed that they were on the move, circling each other.

"You're out of luck, Professor," said the intruder. "And out of room."

The red and blue flashes kept dancing around the middle of the room, meeting and annihilating each other.

"I don't know what you mean," replied Snape coolly.

Suddenly the red disappeared, and was replaced with a massive white screen. A loud _thud_ shook the room, and a second later an even brighter red bolt shot out from a few feet above Ron, followed an instant later by the faint _whoosh_ of a wand flying through the air. The fog cleared, revealing Professor Snape clutching two wands, standing on top of the desk that had somehow moved fifteen feet to sit right next to the doorway. Where the desk previously was, Isaac Wilkinson was standing wandless, a wry smile on his face.

The room applauded as though Filch had just been sacked. Everyone was in awe of the duel they had just witnessed.

"Professor Severus Snape, everyone," shouted Isaac as he motioned for Snape to take a bow; Snape ignored the suggestion entirely. He simply hopped down—or, more precisely, slowly hovered downwards—from the desk and sent it zooming back to its original location. Then, conjuring a beaten-up wooden chair, he sat down at the desk and began reading the _Daily Prophet_.

"I think I know just about everyone in this room," Isaac proclaimed once he had retrieved his wand and the applause had finally quieted down, "but for the sake of introductions, I am Isaac Wilkinson, Prefect of Slytherin and Junior Officer of the Auror Office. I've spent the last two summers learning the art of dueling from some of the best Aurors themselves. We'll talk about the duels you'll be fighting at the end of today's meeting. But first, I want to dissect the battle you just saw—or," he paused slightly and grinned, "couldn't see, as the case may be.

"Let's see, who should we pick on first…Hermione." Given that Hermione's reputation had already spread to most of the school, Ron was certain that this was not a random choice. "What stood out to you in that duel?"

Hermione had never looked happier. "Well, your main thesis seems to follow the dueling philosophy of Alastor Moody, who's famous for claiming that constant vigilance is the key to winning any magical battle. Professor Snape displayed knowledge of his surroundings both when he blocked your first hex and when he jumped onto the desk just when he was about to run into it. You made it hard for him to be aware of all his surroundings by summoning the fog and moving objects around while you were hidden. Without great attention to detail, Professor Snape would've fallen for your trap."

Isaac's wide grin returned. "I couldn't have said it better myself. Constant Vigilance! I would like everyone to close their eyes."

Slowly, as if they were worried Isaac would ram a desk into them while they weren't watching, everyone in the room followed.

"Raise your hand if you are standing under a chandelier."

Professor Snape whipped out his wand and applied at least five different silencing charms to the higher-year students who swore loudly at this instruction.

"Many a great wizard has been done in by failing to notice what lies above or below. Awareness of your surroundings is the key to any duel. But that wasn't the only thing we saw just now, was it, Miss Granger?"

"Well, when you used the tea kettle to block Professor Snape's spell, you introduced a new element to the environment that you knew about before he did. The best way to gain an advantage in a duel is to throw in a surprise that you've thought about ahead of time, especially if you can introduce it in a way that doesn't give up tempo."

"Astute observation. Yes, a good dueling strategy makes your opponent uncomfortable because he is reacting to changes that he does not expect. More often than not, your opponent will be used to casting hexes in the sterile environment of the classroom, and will be thrown off by chaos. And there was one _more_ thing."

Hermione fell silent, as did the rest of the room.

"Professor Snape retained a perfect sense of where everything was in the room, even though I moved the desk after I created the fog. How?"

More silence. "Supersensory charm?" Hermione finally ventured.

"Echolocation," exclaimed Fred in the back. Ron gathered that Percy had given up on ever getting the twins to listen to him. Snape, however, had not reached that stage of enlightenment, and proceeded to dock Gryffindor ten points.

"I cast a spell to make the desk invisible to supersensory charms, and Professor Snape is, as far as I know, not an animagus. Any more guesses?"

Everyone in the room shook their heads no.

"Legilimency."

Hermione's hand shot up. "But legilimency requires eye contact, and the fog would have prevented him from seeing any more than a faint outline of you."

"Yes, but when you're Professor Snape, you don't need eye contact to perform legilimency. Once he knew where I was—because he could see the hexes I was firing—he was able enter into my thoughts and search through them easily enough to determine what I had done to the room."

A wave of nervous murmurs swept through the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw sections. Was Professor Snape reading _their_ minds too?

"No, I do not perform legilimency on students unless they have given me permission to do so, as Mister Wilkinson did before this duel. And no, I was not just listening to your thoughts, I was listening to your voices."

Now, Draco Malfoy's hand shot up. "So Isaac, are you saying that we're going to learn legilimency in this club? Because otherwise I think you've told us that we don't stand a chance in a real duel."

"The point I was trying to make, Malfoy, is that you can plan all you want, but in the end, the best predictor of who will win a duel is still raw magical ability. Dueling, like so many art forms, is a realm in which creativity and thoughtfulness only make greatness when paired with carefully honed skill. This year, I hope to impart onto you a little of how to excel in all aspects of dueling, from the strategic to the technical.

"Next week, we will begin practicing the all-important skill of casting spells in chaotic situations. You'll be working with an elementary hex by the name of _collido_. Make sure you can cast this spell for next week. Any questions?"

Heads shook silently.

"Okay. Er, club dismissed."

As the students slowly shuffled out of the classroom, Hermione approached Harry and Ron, not quite as peppy as she had been five minutes ago, but still apparently in a good mood. "You're right, Harry. It would've been a crime if you'd been prevented from seeing that. My gosh, aren't you so excited for next week? I need to get back and look up that hex, I'm sure I've seen it somewhere _The Standard Book of Spells, Book One_."

"Yeah, should be fun," said Harry. "Hey, listen, if you still want to know how me and Ron got here, I can show you; I owe you for all your help. You just can't tell anyone else."

Hermione just smiled and shook her head. "Don't be the kid who has to blurt out all the answers. I'll puzzle it out eventually." She turned around and spied Neville walking slowly out. "Hey, Neville! Wait up!"

Harry and Ron were the last to leave; they wanted to wait until it got less crowded before dawning Harry's cloak once again.

"Ten knuts says she figures it out by Christmas," said Ron.

Harry shook his head. "You think I'd bet against Hermione solving a puzzle? I'm not that dumb."

* * *

><p>A Prefect's Duty is to maintain order at Hogwarts. Tolerance of subversive activities is weakness, and special treatment for anyone is corruption.<p>

Percy Weasley rapped quickly on the thick oaken door and stared expectantly ahead.

"C-c-come in," said a nervous voice from inside.

Percy walked in and sat down in the straight-backed wooden chair in front of the defense teacher's desk. "You may already be aware, Professor, but if not, I think you deserve to be made aware of certain activities being carried out by Isaac Wilkinson and Professor Snape."

"Activities? Certainly the P-P-Prefect of Slytherin and his head of house are not doing anything n-n-nefarious?"

"Sir, Wilkinson has started a dueling club. Invitation only. Professor Snape is supervising the whole operation. I fear that both of them might be overstepping their bounds."

"Yes, I have heard a little about this society. Is there anything I should be c-c-concerned about?"

"It just seems out of place for a fifth-year student to be starting a dueling club with the Potions Master," Percy continued bluntly. "Such a club, if it deserves to exists at all, should really be under your supervision, not Professor Snape's. Besides, any student in the history of Hogwarts would be unprepared for the role Isaac has given himself. He's always taken on ridiculous challenges to try to prove his worth. I mean, he is the student who practically forced the Sorting Hat to put him in Slytherin even though he was a muggleborn."

Percy saw Quirrell twitch ever so slightly, and his voice became tinged with an unnatural, almost reptilian quality. _"Wilkinson is a mudblood?"_

For a second, Percy couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "Professor!"

Quirrell straightened up and became his normal, nervous self. "Oh, t-t-terribly sorry. Old S-S-Slytherin habits d-d-die hard, you might s-s-say."

"But I thought you were a Ravenclaw!"

"Oh, well, yes, I s-s-suppose I was." The defense teacher was paler than Percy had ever seen him, and seemed to wince with every syllable. "T-T-Thank you, Mister W-W-Westing, but I b-b-believe that this situation is un-d-d-der c-c-control."

Percy grinned meekly before sprinting out the door. He didn't stop until he'd gone three floors up.

_What just happened? Was Quirrell going insane? Had the former Muggle Studies professor suddenly become blood purist?_

_And how, if Quirrell didn't even know his name, was Percy ever going to get a good recommendation letter for a job at the Ministry?_


End file.
